Friday, November 4, 2011

I'm not sure about this. I guess I'm a little of both, some days optimistic and some days negative.

One thing's for sure, though. I am definitely cockeyed.

I had the Mohs procedure in Boston on Wednesday, and, although it was successful, it was more complicated than I expected. The surgeon took what they call two "passes," meaning he removed a layer of the cancerous tissue (squamous cell) under my eye and then repeated the procedure because he didn't get all of it the first time.

After he had numbed up the area around my eye and removed the tissue, I waited about 45 minutes so he could see if he had gotten all of it. Most people sit in the waiting room, but since I needed to have my head back, I waited in the chair. That really wasn't so bad. I just took a nap.

When he came back in, he said some was still left, so he repeated the process again. After the second round, he said that he had gotten it all. One of the nurses told me it can take up to five passes, so I guess I did pretty well.

Next I went upstairs in the same building to the repair shop, where I got into a room quickly and then proceeded to wait there for an hour and a half.

When the doctor finally came in, she numbed up the area all around my eye with multiple injections, the only part of the procedure that hurt.

She handed me a mirror so I could see the little hole right under my tear duct. Yup, it was a hole alright.

The repair involved taking a skin graft from under my eyebrow and stitching it over the hole.

"You're getting a free eye-lift," the doctor joked as she worked.

Excuse me? On one eye?

Afraid to move my head, I didn't want to talk, but I did have to ask if that would end up looking a little strange.

She said that it wouldn't make that much of a difference, but we could reevaluate it when I healed.

So does insurance pay for an eye lift to balance you out? Just wondering.

She also put a stent in to open up my tear duct, which the surgeon had apparently needed to slice. She finished by sewing a piece of cotton called a ballast over the graft and onto my skin. I go back next week to have the ballast removed.

What with the wad of cotton, the stitches under my eyebrow and the overall swelling, it is not a pretty picture.

It's amazing what they can do. If the eye doesn't match noone but you would probably ever notice but if you're like me, you would point it out to everyone! Hope this is the last eye surgery you will need.

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About Me

On Jan. 31, 2009, I had a rare fourth bone marrow transplant. This is my story of running into a diagnosis of Acute Myeloid Leukemia, or AML, in 2003 after feeling unusually winded while running a 10K race. It is a story of falling down and getting up and falling down and getting up many times over, with two relapses, life-threatening complications, life-long side effects... and a determination to keep moving. I am a freelance writer with a background in daily journalism. I have three children, one Labrador retriever and a debt of gratitude to my bone marrow donor. I have written versions of the story for The New York Times, The Philadelphia Inquirer, Espn.com, Marie Claire and Vice Media. I started the blog in 2008 with one story and found that I had many more to tell.